


A song to say goodbye

by Aqua111



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Archie Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Drug Addiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqua111/pseuds/Aqua111
Summary: Thoughts of loss after Rembrandt's death and feelings of guilt





	A song to say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> There once had been a songfic challenge with 10 songs I wanted to make – 6 songs were used as chapters of „Fortress of Death", one for „Exile Vilify" and one for "I don't mind the rain". All of them were TF2 related but now the 9th song will finally be dedicated to the Echidnas. I don't think I am able to complete the challenge though because so much time has passed since I started with it and since I didn't already have a story that could fit to that song I have completely forgotten what the last song was.
> 
> I have no idea in which order the first few Guardians died – so I would rather see those scenes in one of my alternate universe storylines than in the one happening in the comics' universe.
> 
> It's also a very short story for a change.

A soft breeze blew and ruffled up my fur a bit. It brought scent of early spring. Yeah, spring was about to start, not caring that a life had only recently ended… I stood side by side with my other Brotherhood members, our heads lowered; only sometimes glancing at the coffin that would soon be put down to the grave. When I slightly turned my head I locked eyes with our youngest member for a brief moment. I could see the silent reproach in his red eyes. Or maybe it was just the reflection of my own remorse I saw in them. We all were guilty – were all to blame for the death of this poor soul in some way – for turning our faces away when he needed us the most, for rather caring about our public image than our own family member while his heart was lying in pieces and he was spiralling further and further down into the darkness. The Brotherhood of Guardians – he had been the one choosing the name for us, but as if adding insult to injury we were leaving him down in the dumps while still keeping that name. And now we suddenly were there by his side, even though all that was left to do was staring at Rembrandt's grave. And I should be feeling the guiltiest of them all, for I was his father.

It somehow started with Aaron's death. We all were hit by it and in grief but of course it struck Rembrandt the hardest. For a long time it looked as if he had completely given up himself – neglecting his duties, his own family, spending most of the time by his son's grave. We didn't know what to do about him, felt completely helpless. But at that time we at least still had Steppenwolf. He always had been our pillar of strength, of unity, and he was also able to give some of that strength back to Rembrandt – by talking to him, simply being there for him when he needed someone. My son never was back to his old self, hardly was present in Haven and when he was there he never contributed much to conversations, but he at least started Jordan's training after the boy had asked him for it and picked up his duties again.

But then the worst happened. Steppenwolf died – and with him Rembrandt slowly died too, a process that lasted for over a year. This time it was the other way around – he stayed in Haven but mostly he kept himself locked up inside of his room. A whole year of suffering and that because we again felt completely helpless and were avoiding contact with him when he wasn't already doing it.

I also have to admit – and I am feeling so terrible for it – that we felt in some way ashamed for him. The Guardians had their public image as the protectors of Angel Island, we were always standing strong for our people, nothing could bring us down, and we never neglected our duties. And then there was Rembrandt. Sometimes he had uncontrollable outburst of anger, even when he was alone in his room. One moment he was blaming himself for the death of his son, one moment everyone else, the next moment he was just completely silent, not caring for anything in the world and only wishing to be dead. It should have been an alarming sign for us, at least for me, to take action. There was always something in his voice, something in his eyes that despite all of his evasions of contact to us pleaded for help, that didn't want to die, but still we never helped. We also know he was taking sleeping pills, not just for the night but sometimes also at daytime – as soon as he had woken up the next pill would follow so he could fall back into the comfort of either his dream world or at least mere unconsciousness and didn't have to deal with the pain of waking hours. Maybe he also took other substances but if so he still cared enough to never let us know.

Like this we lived for over a year and then came Spectre. The boy was … unique, to describe him best. Fierce, a hard to control temper, unconventional – he might have followed the duties and traditions of the Brotherhood but not without questioning and casting doubt on everything first. One of the first things he noticed when he came to Haven and wanted to know was why Rembrandt didn't seem to be anywhere. We couldn't lie to him, not to someone who would be living with us for the following years to come and sooner or later would have found out on his own anyways, so we told him about his ancestor's condition. At first he was silent, like shocked. At first we thought he felt as repulsed as we had slowly started to feel the past months but then – I can still remember the words he threw into our faces.

"And you didn't even TRY to help him?"

I had hardly ever felt fear in my life, especially not of a family member, but at this short moment when I saw this fire of disgust and hate burning in his eyes I wanted to run for cover. And it also was like a wakening slap in the face. This boy saw us as uncaring bastards and he was right. When had we become like this? Why had we become like this? A while after Aaron's death we had felt helpless but we still cared. Then it seemed as if Steppenwolf had healed Rembrandt's broken heart and our worries subsided but he had never healed after all. But then the oldest Guardian died and this time we were more than just helpless. We had not only lost a family member but also a big part of the force that gave us all strength and held us together. That alone was already more than we could bear at that time – a Guardian sinking into more severe depressions than ever before was too much to deal with. From the beginning he was already gliding out of the hands we could barely offer him. And instead of supporting him once we had regained our own strength we became even more separated.

At that time Spectre had already stormed away and we followed reluctantly. Maybe the others had started feeling as guilty as I did, or maybe they just wanted to make sure the boy didn't do anything to damage Haven in his anger. He in fact did something, namely slamming his fists against the door to Rembrandt's room and it looked as if he could be able to slam them right through the metal.

"Open that damn door or I will blast it away!" was just one of the things I could hear him scream. I don't know if my son had unlocked it or if Spectre had really broken it open but in the end he was inside of that room. A room filled with darkness and the stench of rot and lack of hygiene was suddenly filled with a ray of light and some fresher air – not only physically from the corridor but also in a more metaphorical way.

Spectre was not as tactical as Steppenwolf – he was raging and threw insults to everyone and everything – but he showed that there was someone left who still DID care. For the first time in so many months I saw something like a light glint of life and hope return to Rembrandt's eyes.

If only it hadn't already been too late at that time. If only someone like Spectre had come earlier. If only we had taken action on our own and helped while we still could do a change. Grief can kill a Guardian – if it is strong enough and lasts for a long time our bodies will age faster than they should. When Rembrandt died – only a few days after Spectre's arrival – he was physically older than Steppenwolf had been when his time had come.

And now there was nothing left but guilt and the pain of another loss. I looked up again and at Spectre. This time the boy didn't look back, his glance was fixated on the coffin, his unusual coloured eyes held nothing but sorrow. I hope he can keep that temper and care and pass it on. The ones who will follow and one day replace us shall not live as blindly and cold as we have been.


End file.
